


Fuhgeddaboudit

by SpideyFics



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Amnesia, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, He gets over it pretty quickly though, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Irondad Four Tags Challenge, Kidnapping, Mind Manipulation, Neuroscience? I don't know her, Protective Peter Parker, Protective Tony Stark, Set in that sweet spot between HOCO and IW, Temporary Amnesia, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, just a smidge, little bit of swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:07:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23702071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpideyFics/pseuds/SpideyFics
Summary: Hesitant, he approached the man, cautiously touching his shoulder. “Sir? Are you OK?”The man moved his head in response to hearing his voice, wincing. He’d been beaten, his face battered and bloody, and vivid bruises bloomed across his cheekbones and crept up from underneath his beard. “Huh?” he said, his eyes fluttering open. “Who’re you?”And wasn’t that the million-dollar question, because he had no clue.No ideas.No memories.A teenager and a man wake up in a cell with injuries, no personal memories, and no apparent means of escape.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 64
Kudos: 443
Collections: IronDad Four Tags Challenge, The Best Irondad/Spiderson Fics, The Best Peter Parker Whump Fics





	Fuhgeddaboudit

**Author's Note:**

> My contribution to the Four Tag challenge - use the tags hurt/comfort, protective Peter Parker, protective Tony Stark, and amnesia, with a optional tag of kidnapping.

He startled awake.

A pair of legs bracketed his, and arms were wrapped around him, holding him in place against someone’s chest. He struggled out of their loose hold without meeting any resistance, backing away into the corner.

The room was blank and featureless, devoid of anything other than a recessed light fixture – no windows and no discernible doors, the walls, floor and ceiling all apparently made from the same smooth, grey metal.

An unconscious man lay slumped against the wall and for a moment, he thought the man was dead, but then he shifted, his face screwing up in discomfort and his hand coming up to rub at his nose as he sniffed.

Hesitant, he approached the man, cautiously touching his shoulder. “Sir? Are you OK?”

The man moved his head in response to hearing his voice, wincing. He’d been beaten, his face battered and bloody, and vivid bruises bloomed across his cheekbones and crept up from underneath his beard. “Huh?” he said, his eyes fluttering open. “Who’re you?”

And wasn’t _that_ the million-dollar question, because he had no clue.

No ideas.

No memories.

He knew he was male. Knew that his face and neck hurt, his ribs too, but he didn’t know his name or his age or where he lived.

He didn’t know if anyone loved him.

“Kid?” the man said, pushing himself into a more upright position. “You look like someone beat the shit out of you.”

He flinched back automatically as the man reached out for him, the movement jarring his neck, and he clapped a hand to his nape, letting out a yelp. “Who are you?” he demanded, throwing the man’s previous question right back at him and trying to hide his rising sense of panic.

“I’m – apparently on the downward spiral of a three-day bender, because I don’t know who I am.” The man patted his suit jacket down, slipping his hands inside various pockets and coming up with nothing. “And you didn’t tell me who you are. Let me guess, you can’t remember either?”

He shook his head. “I don’t remember anything. My age, my name, nothing.”

“Well, you look about twelve so I’d hope you’re not coming off a drinking binge.” The man got to his feet, and staggered a little, catching himself on the smooth wall. “You look like a Jimmy to me. So that’s what I’m gonna call you until we know otherwise.”

Jimmy nodded. “And I’m going to call you – Ben.”

They looked at one another, a long moment of silence that didn’t feel awkward or uncomfortable – it felt familiar, lived in, like they’d known one another a long time.

It felt _safe_.

“I can’t see a way out of this room, Mr. Ben,” Jimmy said, as he began to search the wall for a seam or a crack that might indicate a doorway. “And I don’t know about you, but I really gotta – you know.”

“Unless they built this thing around us, then there has to be a secret door somewhere,” Ben said, joining Jimmy in running his hands over the walls. He pushed gently against an almost imperceptible flaw, and grinned as a panel slid back, revealing a bathroom. “Yay!” he sing-songed, looking inordinately pleased with himself.

Jimmy pushed past him, desperate to relieve his aching bladder, and slapped ineffectively at the wall, trying to make the panel slide closed. “Turn your back and put your fingers in your ears,” he said, embarrassed to hear his voice go up in pitch. “Quick!” Ben moved out of sight and began humming tunelessly, leaving Jimmy to it.

With his bladder finally empty, Jimmy moved to the sink to wash his hands, looking at his reflection in the mirror. He was young, mid-teens at a guess, and pale beneath the blood and bruises that marked his face. His hair was a mass of unruly brown waves and curls, and his eyes were a matching dark brown. “Hey, Mr. Ben?”

Ben stepped into the room, his hands over his eyes. “Just call me Ben, kid. You called?”

Jimmy gestured at the mirror. “I don’t even recognize my own face. How about you?”

Ben stood next to him, staring at their reflections. “We look kind of alike, don’t you think?” He moved his head side to side, a hand coming up to stroke his neat and precisely trimmed beard. “Maybe you’re my kid. I don’t remember anything, but you feel – familiar. Like I need to keep you safe. That’s a dad thing, right?”

Jimmy shrugged, noting the similarities in their defined jaws, dark eyes and messy hair. “I guess. We _do_ look pretty similar.” He pulled a handful of paper towels from the dispenser and dampened them under the faucet before bringing them up to his face, trying to remove the crusted blood.

Ben’s hand covered his, taking the wad of towels from him. “Sit down, kid,” he said, placing his hand on Jimmy’s shoulder and guiding him to sit on the closed toilet. Jimmy let him tip his head back, Ben’s fingers curling under his chin as he gently wiped away the mess.

“Pretty sure you’ve got a broken cheekbone, maybe a broken nose too,” Ben commented, wadding up the bloodstained paper towels and tossing them into the waste bin. He clapped him gently on the shoulder. “Any other injuries I should know about?”

Jimmy thought about it for a moment. His chest ached, and he didn’t know what a broken rib felt like, but he was pretty sure that was the reason for the sharp pain in his side every time he took a deep breath. “I, uh, I think I might have some broken ribs? Maybe. It hurts when I breathe in.”

“Lift up that geeky t-shirt of yours and let’s take a look.” Ben leaned in close as Jimmy peeled his t-shirt away from his stomach, the pain intensifying as he lifted his arms higher.

Ben whistled, taking over holding up the t-shirt and indicating that he should drop his arms. “Yep, you’ve sprung at least two ribs. And damn, you’re surprisingly ripped for a little squirt.”

Jimmy looked down at his stomach, noting the prominent abs with surprise. “I guess I must work out?”

“Sure looks like it.” Ben pressed gently along his side, eliciting a sharp intake of breath as the pain flared up. “Sorry kiddo, not much I can do about these ribs. You can breathe OK, right?”

“Yup. Just pinches a little if I take a deep breath.” Jimmy let Ben take hold of his left arm and slip it out of the armhole of his t-shirt before positioning it around his stomach and pulling the fabric back down over it.

“That should give you some support for now,” Ben said. “It’s the best I can do without a sling to take the weight of your arm.”

“Thanks,” Jimmy said, pushing himself awkwardly to his feet. “Your turn now, Mr. Ben.”

“Mr. Ben makes rice. I told you, just call me Ben. Or Dad, because I’m pretty sure that’s who I am.” Ben sat down without further argument, his face screwed up in confusion. “How come I can remember the name of a brand of rice but not my actual, own name?”

“It’s _Uncle_ Ben’s rice, and I don’t know.” Jimmy wet a new bundle of towels, squeezing out the excess water, and began to blot away the blood from Ben’s forehead. “It’s like every personal memory I ever had has just been wiped away.” He moved the wad down to his mouth, gingerly pressing it against the cut in his bottom lip. “Like, I can remember Fermat’s last theorem, but I don’t know my birthday.”

“Judging by the math and the t-shirt, you’re clearly a nerd,” Ben said, but his voice was teasing, gently affectionate. “And this suit I’m wearing is a Tom Ford, so I’m probably wealthy.”

Jimmy finished tending to Ben’s injuries, discarding the soiled towels. “It’s so weird that we remember stuff like that, you know? I don’t even know how that’s possible.”

“I don’t know either, kid. But we’ll figure it out.”

They went back to the empty room and settled down next to one another on the floor, Ben helping him slide down the wall as his balance was off with one arm out of commission.

“We need to figure out how to escape,” Ben said, stretching his legs out. “They could have welded a wall in place once we were in here, but that seems like a lot of effort, so I’d put money on there being a door somewhere, like the one for the bathroom. We just need to find it.”

Jimmy shifted uncomfortably, his ribs making it difficult to find a position that didn’t made the pain flare up. “I guess.”

“Come here, kid.” Ben patted his thigh. “Stretch out, try and get comfortable.”

Somewhat reluctantly, Jimmy did as Ben suggested, turning on to his right side and pillowing his head against the man’s thigh. He sighed as Ben began to stroke his hair, fingers working through the blood-encrusted strands. “This should feel weird, but it doesn’t.”

“Like I said, I feel like we know each other. Trust each other. We might not remember, but our subconscious apparently does.” Ben continued to smooth his hair back, and they fell into a comfortable silence.

Jimmy had just slipped into a half-doze when Ben nudged his shoulder.

“Pssst. Jimmy. Kid. Someone’s coming,” he murmured, slipping his hand under Jimmy’s upper back and helping him sit up, before kneeling in front of him. “Stay behind me and don’t say anything.” He reached protectively behind him with one hand, keeping contact with Jimmy’s upper arm.

A panel slid open in the far corner of the room and three men stepped in, standing shoulder to shoulder and presenting a solid wall of muscle. They parted momentarily to let a woman slip between them.

A smirk played about her lips as she regarded Jimmy and Ben, her face draped in the shadow of the hooded cerise cowl she wore, and her eyes were hidden by pink-tinted sunglasses. Tall and willowy, she moved like a predator, stalking her way across the room until she stood directly in front of Ben, close enough that he had to tip his head uncomfortably far back to look at her.

“Hello boys,” she purred, trailing her fingertips from the base of Ben’s throat up to his chin, shoving his head back even further. He gasped as she grabbed his throat, his hand convulsively gripping Jimmy’s bicep. “Aren’t you a pretty sight, all battered and bruised like this and on your knees in front of me, where you belong.”

Jimmy braced Ben with a hand between his shoulders as the woman crowded him, forcing him to shuffled backwards on his knees, her hand still wrapped around his throat. “Stop it!” he cried, hearing Ben’s hiss of pain.

She dropped her hand and crouched down, tipping her head to the side to look at him. “Aaaaw, you’re just the cutest little thing,” she cooed. “All scrappy and yelpy, like a chihuahua.”

“Leave the kid out of this,” Ben growled, his voice scratchy. “I don’t know what your problem is, lady, but just let us go.”

Jimmy flinched as the woman stroked his cheek. “And why would I do that, hmmm? Look at you both, groveling on the floor, completely at my mercy.” She grabbed his face in a pincer grip, squeezing his cheeks painfully. “You’re both giant pains in my ass. When I do let you leave, you’ll be in body bags, but I’m going to have my fun until then.” The grab turned into a flat-handed push against his face, shoving him back into the wall and making him cry out as pain flared in his nose and ribs.

The woman pushed the cuff back from her wrist, revealing a sleek, silver wristband. “I just realized that I didn’t introduce myself – how rude of me. I’m Mindblast. Let me show you just what I can do.” She passed her hand across the wristband and grinned at them.

“I’m not very impressed so far,” Ben snarked. “What are you, a close-up magician? Are you going to make a bunny appear out of a hat, or tell me what card I picked? Maybe you could disappear the fuck out of here.”

“Uh, Ben,” Jimmy whispered, as a sharp throb began to pulse at the nape of his neck. “Ben – I – I feel –“

He didn’t finish his sentence, the world whiting out in a nuclear burst of pain and taking his voice with it, frying every nerve and knotting every muscle as he spasmed, his head banging repeatedly into the wall. He bit his tongue, salty blood flooding his mouth, and the clawed fingers of his left hand clutched convulsively at his abdomen, fingernails dragging repeatedly against his skin and causing little sparks of pain that paled in comparison to the fire burning in his skull.

“Jimmy? Shit, what the hell is going on?” Jimmy was aware of Ben at his side, his hands hovering uncertainly. “Lady, you’d better stop whatever you’re doing right now, or I swear, I’ll make you stop.”

Mindblast squatted in front of Jimmy, her face close enough that he could smell cinnamon on her breath. “Why would I stop when he looks like this? So wounded and vulnerable.”

Jimmy started to gasp, his chest so tight that he was struggling for every breath, and Ben became frantic, his hands ceasing their fluttering and settling on Jimmy’s arms. “Stop. Please, stop this. He’s just a kid. Look at him,” he begged, and suddenly, mercifully, the paralyzing pain stopped, leaving Jimmy panting and exhausted in Ben’s supportive embrace.

Mindblast stood, tugging her cuff back down over her wrist. “He’s _not_ just a kid. He’s far more than that. He ruined my life, and _you_ helped him do it. I’m going to make you pay.” She jabbed Jimmy’s injured side with her foot, making him wheeze. “You’re both scum.”

She left without another word, her heavies following and the door sliding shut behind them.

“Jesus, Jimmy.” Ben cradled his face, thumbs gently applying traction to the skin beneath his lower lids to check his eyes. “Do you have epilepsy or something?”

“Dunno,” Jimmy managed, his bitten tongue hot and swollen. “My neck. Check my neck.”

Ben tugged him forward into a half embrace, forehead against his arm as he moved his fingers through the hair at the nape of Jimmy’s neck. “There’s – there’s something under your skin,” he said, revulsion clear in his voice. “An implant, maybe. There’s an incision that looks recent, it still has stitches.”

Jimmy shuddered at the thought of something being under his skin, _inside_ him, and he shakily moved his hand to feel for himself, encountering a smooth, perfectly circular lump about the size of a dime. ”Get it out,” he said, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. “Please, please get it out.” His fingers scrabbled against the stitches, trying to pluck them out of his skin.

Ben grabbed his hand, pulling it away from the swelling. “I can’t,” he said. “We’ve got nothing other than a stack of hand towels and a soap dispenser. There’s no way of preventing an infection if I open up that incision.”

Jimmy sagged against him. “Who is she?” he murmured, as Ben wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “How did I ruin her life? Do you think I - hurt her?”

“No, I don’t think you hurt her,” Ben said, resting his chin on the crown of Jimmy’s head. “But when we get out of this, I promise I’m gonna make her pay for what she did to you, OK?”

“We’re never getting out,” Jimmy said bleakly. “We’re gonna die here. You heard her. She hates me, hates _us_. She’s not going to let us walk out of here.”

The arm around his shoulders squeezed a little tighter. “Hey. Enough of that. We’re getting out of here, you got that?” When he didn’t get an answer, he tapped Jimmy’s arm. “You got that?”

“Got it,” Jimmy said faintly. His whole body was throbbing like one giant, blood and pus-filled blister, and he was so exhausted he felt like he could sleep for a week and still not feel rested. “Ben, I need to lay down.” His voice was strained and weak, and he was so loose-limbed that he was sure he lacked the coordination to lay down without collapsing.

Ben gently lowered him to the ground then stripped off his suit jacket, wadding it up into a neat little pillow that he tucked under his head. “Try and sleep,” he said, running his hand over Jimmy’s hair. “I’ll be right here.”

Jimmy was out before he had a chance to respond.

***

He woke an indeterminate amount of time late and held still for a moment, assessing his assorted injuries; the heaviness had retreated, and the various aches and pains had settled down to a dull, background discomfort that was easier to ignore than the insistent sharp throb of earlier.

Ben was curled up next to him, his right hand clutching his left wrist, and his breathing was deep and measured. He looked younger asleep, his face relaxed, the stress lines between his eyebrows smoothed away into almost nothingness.

Jimmy rolled cautiously onto his uninjured side and then on to his knees, pushing himself up to stand with a hand on the wall for balance.

A tray of food was on the floor just in front of the hidden doorway. It was nothing fancy – subs served on paper plates, and two paper cups full of water, but his mouth began to water, and his stomach rumbled. He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep for, but it was obviously long enough for him to be hungry. It probably wasn’t the wisest decision to eat food given to him by a woman who wanted him dead, but he got the impression that when she did finally kill him, it would be up close and personal, so he figured the sandwich and water were safe.

The food had been sat out long enough that the bread had started to dry out, its crust flaking off as he sunk his teeth into it, but it still tasted delicious. His broken cheekbone hurt with every chew, so he forced himself to take slow, small bites interspersed with sips of lukewarm water.

“Who knew Grubhub would deliver this far out,” Ben said from behind him, making him jump. “How’re you feeling?”

“Better,” Jimmy mumbled from around a mouthful of bread. “You?”

Ben stretched his arms out above his head, his fingertips grazing the low ceiling. “Same.” He sat down next to Jimmy, crossing his legs and reaching out to snag the other sandwich. “I’m guessing she doesn’t want to poison us,” he said, peeling back the top layer and examining the ham, turkey and cheese filling. “Too hands off. She’ll want to watch.” He tore a chunk of sandwich off, and bit into it.

Jimmy watched him chew. “How long did I sleep?”

“You were out for at least six hours before I crashed, so who knows. You were out like a light though.”

“Did I miss anything?” he asked, putting aside his sandwich for a moment to rock his head back and forth, trying to loosen some of the tension in his neck and shoulders.

“Nope. Just me pacing the room and trying to find a weak spot. I didn’t, in case you’re wondering. But I’ll find us a way out of here, I promise.”

Jimmy looked around the room – which was probably an overly generous description, given that it was basically a six foot cube – and wondered how the hell Ben planned on getting them out of what appeared to be an impenetrable jail cell. “Could we, I dunno, jump them or something?”

Ben looked him up and down, raising an eyebrow. “The three stooges would probably squash us like bugs before we even laid a finger on them,” he said. “You might be muscly but you’re practically a toothpick, and I I’m in pretty good shape, but they have a foot in height and breadth on me. We wouldn’t stand a chance.”

At a loss for any more ideas, Jimmy fidgeted with the stitches at the back of his neck and Ben slapped his hand away. “They itch,” he protested. “They’re driving me crazy.”

“Let me see.” Ben pushed his head down, exposing the nape of his neck. “Huh.”

“Huh?” Jimmy echoed, a little nervously. “What do you mean, ‘huh’?”

“’Huh’ as in I think your body is rejecting the stitches. It’s like your skin is pushing them out, somehow.” Gentle fingers brushed against Jimmy’s nape, and he felt a slight tug before Ben held out a knotted piece of surgical thread. “Look, the stitch is still intact, it was just caught in the top layer of your skin.”

Jimmy took the thread from him. “How could that even happen?”

“I have no idea.” Ben squinted at him, reaching out to push the hair back from his forehead and examining his face. “All the cuts have healed up.” He ran his thumb and index finger down the bridge of Jimmy’s nose. “And your nose is set. I mean, it’s crooked as all get out, but it’s rock solid. Does it hurt?”

“Nope.” Jimmy cautiously lifted his t-shirt, freeing his left arm, and prodded at his ribs. “My ribs have healed up too. Did they drug us or something? Have we been out of it for weeks and I’ve healed?”

“Well, judging by the way my face still feels like it was hit with a meat tenderizer, I’m gonna say no.” Ben laid his hand over Jimmy’s ribs, feeling right round to his spine. “All healed. What the hell is going on, kid?”

Jimmy settled his t-shirt back in place. “This is so weird,” he said, clambering to his feet, his fingers pressed against the wall. He had every intention of going to the bathroom to look at his miraculously healed face, but when he tried to move, he couldn’t, his hand seemingly stuck in place.

“Uh, Ben?” he said, grabbing his wrist and trying to pull his fingers from the slick surface. “I’m stuck.”

“Stuck? What do you mean, you’re stuck?” Ben scoffed, getting up to stand next to him. “You can’t be stuck.” He tried to lever Jimmy’s fingers away from the wall, but they stayed stubbornly affixed. “What the fuck?”

Jimmy was beginning to panic, tugging even harder at his hand. “Ben, help!” he begged, planting one foot against the wall and pulling as hard as he could. His hand moved – but only because the metal beneath it suddenly bulged and stretched like melted taffy, pulled into a shiny ripple. “Woah,” he breathed, his foot moving back to the ground. “Did you see that?”

Wide-eyed, Ben poked at the distorted wall. “OK, take a breath and calm down. Can you think un-sticky thoughts?”

Jimmy screwed his face up in disgust. “Eeew.” That earned him a frown. “I’ll try,” he said, closing his eyes and taking several slow, deep breaths. He knew it was working – he could feel his fingers peeling off the wall one by one, until at last he was free. “Did they make the walls out of aluminum or something?” he asked, shaking his hand out.

Ben ran his fingers over the warped metal, before hitting it hard with the heel of his hand. It didn’t budge, despite his repeated attempts, leaving his palm reddened. “Definitely not foil,” he said. “Can you push that back in? Focus on not sticking.”

Jimmy did as he was asked, gingerly pressing his fingertips to the ripple and pushing. The metal flattened out beneath his touch, with little to no effort on his part. “Do I have super strength?” he said, turning on his heel to look at Ben. “Because I know I have amnesia but I’m pretty sure that I shouldn’t be able to do that.”

“I don’t get how you stuck to it,” Ben said. “Here, try and stick to my jacket.” He picked up the bundle of fabric and pressed it into Jimmy’s hand.

Jimmy concentrated on replicating the feeling he’d had when sticking to the wall and then opened his clenched fist. The jacket dangled freely from his palm, and when he shook it, it didn’t fall. “This is so weird,” he whispered, attempting to shake the jacket loose by helicoptering it around his head. It clung stubbornly to his hand, despite his best efforts to dislodge it.

He brought the jacket back down in front of him and relaxed, the fabric falling to the floor and puddling at his feet. “I’m sticky,” he said, looking up at Ben. “And strong.”

“Really strong,” Ben confirmed. “And I’m pretty sure you heal faster than most people, too. Your injuries look days old rather than hours.”

Jimmy studied his hands, turning them back and forth. “Do you think they know I can do all that?” Whatever made him adhere to things wasn’t visible to the naked eye, and when he rubbed his hands together, he couldn’t feel any residual stickiness.

“I don’t know,” Ben said. “But for now, we keep this to ourselves, alright? It could be our ticket out of here, so just play it like you’re just an average kid, react to whatever they’d do like you don’t have these crazy powers.”

As if summoned by their discussion the door slid open, and Mindblast and her cronies swaggered into the room. Though she projected a massive amount of attitude, she looked exhausted, her face pale and drawn within the shadows of her cowl.

“Are you ready to play again?” she said, exposing her wrist, her fingers poised above the band. “Because I am.”

Jimmy waited for the overwhelming pain to seize him again as she stroked the band, but there was nothing other than a prickling sensation at the nape of his neck. He looked at Ben then dropped, holding his limbs rigid as he repeatedly arched away from the floor, letting out guttural grunts and watching Mindblast in his peripheral vision.

When he saw her hand lift away from her wrist he relaxed, gasping for air, and she apparently bought his act because she smirked, crouching next to him. “Look at you, squirming on the ground. _Pathetic_.”

He glared at her. “What – what do you keep doing to me?” he wheezed, hoping she’d fall into the Scooby Doo villain of the week trap and give him something to work with.

Her ego won out. “Just a fun little gadget I attached to your spinal cord – it generates electrical impulses that interfere with your nervous system,” she said, grinning like she’d just cracked a joke. “I can give you seizures, flood your body with pain, keep you weak and helpless. Neat, huh?”

“I guess it’s neat if you’re a psychopath,” Ben spat, crouching by Jimmy’s side. “What kind of sicko gets their kicks from torturing kids, huh?”

“I told you. He’s not a kid, he’s a nuisance. You both are. And I intend on making the two of you pay for everything you’ve done to me before I kill you.” She smiled at them, flipping them off and then using her middle finger to push her ever-present sunglasses back up to rest on the bridge of her nose, but not quickly enough to stop Jimmy catching a glimpse of her eyes.

Her irises were _pink_.

He didn’t react until she turned on her heel and left them alone.

“Did you see her eyes?” he whispered to Ben.

“Yup. And something freaky is going on underneath that hood of hers.” Ben offered him a hand and pulled him up to stand. “You good?”

“Yeah. Whatever she’s done to me, it’s not working any more. All I could feel was a tingle at the back of my neck.” He dropped his chin to his chest as Ben examined the back of his head. “Ow!” he huffed, as he felt fingernails scrape against a tender spot, followed by the sensation of something popping.

“Sorry, kiddo. But you had a big old zit and when I popped it –“ he held his finger out for Jimmy to examine – “this came out.”

Jimmy took the small, circular piece of metal from the tip of Ben’s finger, bringing it closer to his face to examine it. “Do you think this was the implant she was talking about?” He traced the hair-fine electrodes that spiraled out from the center of the disc.

“Yup. It’s like your body – rejected it, somehow.” Ben steadied Jimmy’s hand and leaned forward to take his own look at the implant. “We should keep this safe, it might come in useful.” He gently took it and dropped it into his shirt pocket.

“How are we going to get out?” Jimmy whispered. “She must know I’m strong, that’s why I had an implant and you didn’t.”

“Well, for now, she thinks she still has you under control with her little gadget, and that gives us the upper hand. Every time she looks like she’s activating it, just put on another one of your Oscar-winning performances and she’ll think she’s still in control.”

“And then?”

“When the time is right, we break out. Until then, we’ll test the limits of what you can do. I hate to have a kid fight my battles for me, but it’s pretty clear that you’re not just any teenager.”

Jimmy pressed his hand flat against the floor, willing it to stick, pleased when he tried to lift his hand and it wouldn’t budge. He needed to find out just what he could do, learn how to control his powers. He relaxed, and his hand released from the floor. “Do you think I’m sticky all over? Maybe I can stick to things through a layer of fabric?”

“Only one way to find out.” Ben rolled his shirt sleeves up and rubbed his hands together. “No time like the present. Let’s get started.”

***

An hour later, they had established several things; Jimmy was indeed sticky all over, and could adhere to anything using any part of his body, his clothing not impeding his stickiness. He was strong enough to lift Ben over his head using one hand (making him yelp “This isn’t Dirty Dancing and I’m not Baby, put me _down!_ ”). He could walk across the floor and then carry on up the wall and onto the ceiling, handing upside down for several minutes without experiencing a rush of blood to the head. Ben had grabbed his hand and tried to pull him down off the ceiling to no avail, and Jimmy had been able to maintain his position and lift Ben off the ground at the same time.

He was grinning down at Ben when a shiver rippled across the back of his neck, the hairs on his arms standing upright. “Someone’s coming,” he hissed, instinctively dropping from the ceiling and flipping so that he landed soundlessly in a crouch, straightening up just as the hidden panel slid open.

It was one of Mindblast’s lackeys, holding a tray of food. “Enjoy. Last meal before boss puts you out of our misery.” He put the tray down and nudged it towards them with his foot, water slopping out of the paper cups and soaking the subs.

“What’s with all the sandwiches, are you trying to fill a loyalty card? Don’t condemned men get to put in a request for their last meal before execution?” Ben snapped, whipping the sandwiches off the tray before they soaked up any more water. “I could go for a Kobe strip. Served with the sharpest steak knife you have. Maybe a kabob for the kid, something that’s on a nice, pointy skewer.”

“Shut your mouth and eat, Stark. Time’s nearly up.” The heavy left them, humming happily to himself as the door slid shut behind him.

“Huh. Stark. I don’t feel like a Stark,” Ben mused as he started pulling soggy hanks of bread off the sub, trying to salvage as much of it as possible. “I feel more like a – Carbonell.”

“Carbonell sounds Italian. Maybe Spanish,” Jimmy said as he bit into his own sandwich, soaked bread and all. He was so hungry that the wet bread didn’t bother him in the slightest. “Benjamin Stark,” he said, sounding it out.

“And Jimmy Stark. James Stark, I guess. Still say you don’t look like a James or a Jimmy, I don’t know what past me was thinking naming you that.” Tony made a face, gulping down his mouthful of food. “Bleh, pickles.”

“I’ll take them,” Jimmy said. “I love them.” Ben wordlessly opened up his sub and held it out, so he carefully peeled the pickles away from the filling, dropping them into his own sandwich.

Ben watched him eat, his own sub forgotten. “So. Looks like we need to make a plan sooner rather than later. Ideas?”

“I could stick myself to the ceiling right above the door and drop on them as soon as they walk in?”

“There’s one of you and four of them, if she brings her heavies. The element of surprise might work, but we can’t rely on you being able to take out all of them at once.”

“Do you think they’ll take us to a secondary location or kill us here?” Jimmy was proud at the fact that his voice didn’t waver, even though thinking about his possible death terrified him. “We could escape when they move us.”

“I don’t think there’s any reason for them to move us.” Ben balled up his sub wrapper and began tossing it repeatedly into the air with a flick of his wrist, catching it and smoothly repeating the movement. “OK. I have an idea …”

***

Jimmy rolled away from the boot that slammed into his ribs and cowered against the wall as Mindblast watched her minions work him over, her sunglasses slipping down her nose and revealing her pink eyes.

“Don’t,” he begged, his voice catching on a sob as he played up his terror. “Please don’t kill me.”

“Begging isn’t going to save you, sweetie,” she crooned, motioning for her men to stand down. “It’s all your fault and you have to pay.” She pushed back her hood, the fabric pooling against her shoulders.

Oh God, he could see her _brain_ , all pink and walnut-looking and glistening, encased in a transparent dome. “M-my fault? I did that to you?”

She laughed. “Oh, no. No, I was born like this. Well, the sunroof came later, but you didn’t do this to me. But you _did_ get all my friends locked up by S.H.I.E.L.D. and ruined all our plans.” She closed her eyes, her fists clenching, and her brain pulsed obscenely within its shell. “Peter Parker. Tony Stark. I want both of you to know who you are, and what you’re leaving behind when I kill you.”

Her hands splayed out and pain shot through his head. He clutched desperately at it, certain that his skull was about to shatter into a thousand shards of bone and gore, but the pain receded like the tide going out, leaving a lifetime of memories in its wake.

He was Peter Benjamin Parker. He was Spider-Man. He had people who loved him – May and Ned and maybe even MJ.

And Tony.

“Mr. Stark,” he panted. “Tony. I remember.”

“Pete. Kid.” Tony struggled against the man restraining him, his arms held behind his back. “Please. Don’t hurt him. Let him go. You want money? I have money. Just let the kid walk.” He was moving on with the plan, using their pre-agreed trigger phrase.

Peter was grateful that bad guys were almost always predictable – Mindblast hadn’t been able to resist indulging in some posturing, rather than just killing them.

He let out a groan, slumping forward and bracing himself with a shaking hand, the other pressed over his eyes. “T-Tony,” he slurred. “Wrong. Somethin’s – I – my head –“ he let himself collapse, sprawling across the floor and ensuring that he landed facing away from their kidnappers.

Tony finally broke free and was at his side a second later, ‘checking’ for a pulse. “He’s dead,” he snarled. “You fucking killed him.” He hunched protectively over Peter, a hand pressed against his back. “Now I’m going to kill you.”

Tony launched himself over Peter and towards Mindblast and her goons, and it took everything Peter had to stay still and not react, playing possum as he waited for his moment, listening to Tony fight hard and dirty. People were always surprised by the fact that Tony Stark could more than hold his own outside of the suit – a perception he’d told Peter he leaned into, as it worked in his favor. Iron Man was more than a suit of armor.

He waited until he heard a body hit the floor and stay there, then rolled to his feet and jumped up to hang from the ceiling by his fingertips, all in one smooth, silent move.

He swung his weight backwards then released at the mid-point of his swing, his momentum sending him crashing into Mindblast, the two of them landing hard on the floor. He straddled her waist, sticking his knees to the floor and then pinning her wrists as Tony took out the last two men, cracking their heads together.

She spat at him, a wet glob of saliva sliding down his face, then laughed. “I suppose you think you’ve won, don’t you?”

“Are you telling me I haven’t?” he asked, layering on a little smugness as he wiped her spit on to his shoulder. “From where I’m sitting – which is on you - we won. And dude, you should be more selective about picking your henchmen, because they went down far too easy.”

“You’re very cocky for someone who has less than a minute left to live,” she sneered. “That lovely little device I embedded in you is literally going to blow your tiny mind in about ten seconds, and there’s no way to stop it. As soon as I stopped telepathically suppressing your memories, I also triggered a switch that set off an irreversible chemical reaction. _Boom._ ”

“ _This_ lovely little device?” Tony said casually, positioning his hand so she could see the implant balanced on his fingertip. “Nice work integrating the expanding nanoexplosive element. I should know - I invented it, though it was never intended to detonate someone’s brain.” He pressed the implant against her forehead at the junction between flesh and dome, the curling electrodes sinking beneath her skin.

“You wouldn’t,” she hissed at Peter. “Spider-Man doesn’t kill people.”

“Spider-Man might not, but Iron Man does,” Tony said, leaning in close, his voice low and menacing. “You messed with my kid, brainbox. Big mistake. But you won’t be doing it again.”

The implant began to glow, emitting high-pitched noise that made Peter wince and long to cover his ears, and Mindblast stiffened beneath him. “Take it off,” she pleaded, looking right at him. “Peter. Please. I know you don’t want to kill me.”

“Don’t I?” he said, and the hope left her eyes just as the device activated.

Her face slackened as her body went limp, and Peter climbed off her, watching her warily. “You – you didn’t actually kill her, right?”

“Of course I didn’t kill her,” Tony said, slinging his arm around Peter’s shoulders. “I just gave her brain a few volts. She’s going to be unconscious just long enough for S.H.I.E.L.D. to scoop her up and lock her in a five-star all-inclusive suppression cell. She can have a reunion with all her Femme Fatale buddies.”

They stepped out of their cell and into an empty warehouse, finding their smashed phones waiting for them on a work bench. Tony activated a hidden GPS distress signal on his phone, then messed with the mechanism of the cell door, locking Mindblast and her men inside.

He boosted himself up to sit on the table next to Peter. “So. Before Rhodey arrives, do we need to talk about the fact that you called me Ben?”

Peter picked up his phone and turning it over and over in his hand, small splinters of the shattered screen catching in his palm. “Do we need to talk about the fact that you thought I was your son and you called me Jimmy?” he countered.

“Don’t call me out like that, Parker,” Tony grumbled. “I guess we subconsciously felt safe with one another and picked names that are meaningful to us. And that’s all I’m going to say, because I refuse to talk about my feelings unless I’m laid on a couch and paying someone $400 an hour to listen.”

Peter huffed out a laugh, swinging his feet back and forth. “I do, you know,” he said softly. “Feel safe, I mean. With you. So yeah, I think you’re right.”

“So much for being safe with me,” Tony said. “We were drugged and grabbed by Mars Attacks and her underlings in broad daylight, then locked up in a fancy storage container and given telepathically-induced selective amnesia.”

“And you got me out of there,” Peter told him, tapping his sneakered foot against Tony’s shoe. “You know this wasn’t your fault, right? If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine. I let her get away the last time we fought.”

“You _do_ remember her trying to drop a plane to the ground with you on it? Kid, you had to knock her out with the wing of a 747 to get away, and even then you spent two days in the med bay. Give yourself a break.”

“Only if you do, too.”

Tony patted him on the shoulder, his hand lingering there. “Deal.”

They fell quiet for a while, but Peter didn’t feel he had to fill the silence with nervous chatter like he usually did – it was comfortable, lived in, and reminiscent of their post-lab late nights spent sprawled shoulder to shoulder on the couch in Tony’s living room, watching muted bad movies and providing their own sarcastic dialogue.

“I can hear Colonel Rhodes,” Peter said as the sound of War Machine’s thrusters grew louder with every passing second, then had a realisation. “Wait – is he Jimmy? Is that what you used to call him?”

“Pete, you’ve literally heard me call him Sourpatch, Honeybear and Platypus. Why are you surprised that I used to call him Jimmy?”

“’s boring,” Peter told him. “Not up to your usual standard of nickname.”

“Rhodey was an eighteen-year-old ROTC cadet and I was a fifteen year-old snot-nosed brat who refused to call him Rhodes or James, so he was Jimmy from the moment he introduced himself as my room-mate and he hated it. My nicknaming skills have evolved since then.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Have they, though? You called me Spider-Diapers last week.”

“And I stand by it. You’re a baby spider. Babies wear diapers. It’s a strong, valid contender for a nickname.” Tony grinned as a molten line began to trace the edge of the reinforced door to the warehouse, evidence of Rhodey cutting his way into the building. “C’mon kid. Looks like we’re being busted out of here.”

Peter slid down off the work bench and Tony wrapped an arm around his shoulders as they walked towards their freedom. “Mr. Stark?” he said, looking up at him.

“Yeah, kid?”

“Thanks for looking after me in there.”

Tony’s expression softened, his hand coming up to rest at the back of Peter’s head for a moment. “Ditto. We make a good team, even when we don’t remember anything.”

The warehouse door crashed to the ground and Colonel Rhodes stepped through the neat cutout, tall and bulky in his suit. “Uber for Dumb and Dumber,” he quipped, his faceplate opening. “You two good?” His flippant greeting didn’t mask the look of relief on his face or hide the exhaustion evident in the bags under his eyes.

“We just had a run in with Baby’s First Nemesis, but other than feeling bloated from a gluten-overload, no major trauma,” Tony said. “Mindblast and her Merry Men are ready and waiting for S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“They’re ten minutes out,” Rhodes confirmed. “And Happy is on his way, he stopped to pick up your aunt, Peter.”

Peter gave him a small smile in acknowledgement and quietly watched as the two men fell into their familiar, fond bickering, years of friendship visible in their inside jokes and casual touches.

The fact that Tony had called him Jimmy, the name of with his closest friend even if he wasn’t consciously aware of it at the time, felt like a shift in their relationship, an acknowledgement that the two of them had moved past mentor and mentee to something more meaningful.

He’d known Tony for a year, idolized him for many more years before that, and had never imagined that Tony Stark would become one of the most important people in his life. Never imagined that they’d have their own in-jokes, or that Tony would spontaneously hug him, or ruffle his hair as he walked by.

He’d never dreamed that Tony would look at him and see him as anything other than an annoying kid from Queens.

“Hey, Underoos, Happy and May are here. Quit your daydreaming and let’s go outside, huh?” Tony said. “If your aunt doesn’t see your dorky self in the next ten seconds, she’s gonna tear me a new one.”

May didn’t even make it to five seconds. She was out of the car and running towards Peter before Happy had fully come to a stop, flinging her arms around him and squeezing him so tightly he thought his newly-healed ribs were going to break all over again. “You’re OK, you’re OK,” she murmured against his shoulder, her hands desperately gripping the back of his t-shirt. “Are you hurt?”

He let her fuss over him, knowing she needed to baby him for a little while, and secretly looking forward to spending the next couple of days curled up with her on the couch eating junk and watching TV. “I’m OK May, Mr. Stark kept me safe.”

“Says the kid who had at least three different broken bones,” Tony scoffed, but he still looked pleased when May tearfully hugged him.

“Thanks for looking after my baby,” she said.

“Not a baby,” Peter objected, but it was a token protest because May _knew_ that her calling him ‘baby’ made him soft, and she unfairly used it to her advantage all the time. So what if he was days away from turning sixteen, and taller than his aunt – one ‘baby’ from her, and he turned into a massive sap.

“To be fair, the baby kicked ass,” Tony said, which Peter appreciated, though really, what had he done other than get beaten up, eat sandwiches, and stick to the ceiling? “It was a mutual looking after. I should be thanking him.”

“It was nothing. Forget about it,” Peter said straight-faced, ducking when Tony swung a hand over his head.

“Little shit,” Tony said fondly, grabbing him in a headlock that he could have easily broken out of, but instead he clung to Tony’s arm and laughed. “Rhodey, I’m taking the spectacular Arachni-Brat and his even more spectacular aunt home. Be a dear and keep an eye on Braniac and her murder-triplets until Fury finally shows up, would you?”

After an exaggerated salute from Rhodes, Tony bundled Peter and May into the back of the car and slid in after them, leaving Peter sandwiched in the middle.

“You could sit up front,” he said to Tony, fumbling to find the seat belt buckle.

Tony fished the buckle up and out of its nook, holding it so Peter could insert the tongue of the belt. “Nope. Not happening. I’m banned from riding shotgun.”

“He messes with my music,” Happy said over his shoulder as he pulled away from the warehouse.

“If you can call that easy-listening crap ‘music’, which I don’t. Plus this is literally my car.”

“When you drive this car, you can pick the music. Until then, you don’t get a say. We’ve been over this. Your music stresses me out, all that shouting and the screechy guitars. It’s not good for my blood pressure.”

As Tony and Happy continued to squabble, May slipped her hand underneath Peter’s, entwining their fingers.

“I was worried about you,” she said quietly, her thumb stroking his. “But I knew Tony would take care of you, wherever you were.”

“Yeah,” Peter agreed softly. “He always does.”

And he hoped that Tony always would.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has absolutely kicked my arse. I started it at the end of February and then quarantine happened, work got intense, and I lost any and all motivation to write, so I'm taking the fact that I managed to finish it as a win, because there I was no way I was going to admit defeat. This is presented in all its unbetaed glory.
> 
> Full-disclosure: I know very little about the comic-verse Mindblast - I just wanted a villain that worked for my story, and she fit the bill nicely. Hand-wavy brain implant stuff is all BS. This is very much a bottle fic - no huge plot, just a focus on IronDad.


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